He burries his nose further into my neck, shifting in my lap until his legs drape down across the sides & I think back to flannel swaddling blankets.  His hand grabs my pajamas & finds it’s way into my shirt until his little palm rests upon my belly, soft from pregnancy & motherhood.  He snuggles down further until his head rests against my chest & he’s listening to my heartbeat & comforted.  He knows me inside & out, the same way I know him.

I think back to the times when I was told that this bonding would not happen as long as he fed from a bottle.  I remember the comments about how nothing could compare to the bond between a child & nursing mother & I wonder why I take that phrase so personally.  How two years later, those thoughts still sting me because I love my baby, too & I think we’re pretty okay together.  I worried I would never experience my child needing me physically & now he finally calms as his head rests against the breasts that never fed him, & I know that bonding flows deeper than milk in all mothers & babies.

So when Harrison starts screaming at bedtime & I’ve told him firmly to get back in bed three separate times, he stares up at me with tears falling & says, “Up!!”  oh, my heart.

I find myself all sternly inner-dialoguing how I’m setting us up for failure when he’s three as I make my way to the rocking chair.  But then I remember how I’m knee-deep in my uterus & how soon, Harry will be going to sleepovers where he will be embarrassed to ever admit he was rocked to sleep & I can’t help myself.  I sit & I rock & tell him stories about the man on the moon until he’s calm.  His heartbeat slows & his breathing steadies & I know he’s asleep because that’s the kind of thing that mother’s just know.

He’s drooling on my shoulder.  It’s time to put the kiddo to bed, but in his earlier rage, all blankets & pillows ended in a pile on the floor.  Which means that I have to get up from the chair & put the bedding back together with 30 lbs of live ammunition on my shoulder.  Doug to the nursery, I think into the universe.  I wait a few minutes.  Hey, buddy.  To the nursery for pillow recon.

I contemplate the length of my legs, wondering if I can grab the pillow corner with my toes & toss it into the bed.  If I can do that, then I’ll have a legit excuse to run away with the circus.  I feel the drool seeping through my jammies.  The kid stirs & I freeze & send imaginary red flares into the sky. & I’m all WHY IS HE NOT READING MY ESP?!  DOUG TO THE NURSERY!  DOUG TO THE NURSERY!

What good is being married almost six years if he can’t read my mind?

11:45pm on Christmas Eve, putting in the 417th screw & an empty whisky glass beside me.

As I said a wee bit ago, we do Santa in our home.

When I wrote that little manifesto, I held so much anticipation in my heart for the coming Christmas Eve.

That night, we sang by candlelight in church & ate spaghetti with family around the dining room table.  Later than normal, Doug & I tucked a very sleepy Harrison into bed with Christmas jammies & The Polar Express.  After changing into comfy clothes & pouring whisky & gingers, we sat down on the living room rug with Santa’s presents.  We began with the most challenging piece, Harrison’s play kitchen.  Over the next two hours, Doug & I laughed & talked about the past year.  How much Harrison has grown, how he will love his new toys, how this season has been so amazing with his ability to participate.  With Christmas carols playing in the background, I really got it.

Watching the presents come together, presents I bought for my little boy, carefully selecting what I thought he might like.  I realized that these twelve hours between bedtime & Christmas morning were a parent’s best part of the year.  The sacrifice & joy & complete infatuation with my child, all coming together on one day.  When we laid down a little past midnight, I felt more excitement as a parent than as a child on Christmas, simply imagining his reaction at the gifts by the tree.

& Harrison’s smile on Christmas Day did not disappoint.

p.s. there are 360 days until harry is three at christmas & i cannot freakin’ wait.

Not because the thoughts aren’t there.  They are there, spilling over madly because this blog is the capture of life & oh, life is being lived right now.

The up & down & GO GO GO! of life where I am sitting in conference rooms at 8:30am & shoving a sandwich in at my desk, prepping for the afternoon’s conference call.  A new assignment that has me flattered & overwhelmed, determined to show the boss that yes! I can do this!  The texting of insurance cards & jotting down ideas & making sure we have all the ingredients for dinner & no, Harrison, you cannot have a cookie for dinner.

The epic meltdown occurs & I’m standing there at the end of the day, shoes kicked off & button-down blouse still on & stirring boiling pasta.  I look at him & close my eyes, taking deep breaths & trying out that 1-2-3 magic but on myself.  He is maddeningly two & woke up this morning on a mission to test all the limits.  A piece of me wants to throw up my hands in frustration, but I look back down at him & all I can do is wrap him up in my arms.

He’s here tonight.  My friend Beth is not so lucky as her little boy Keegan went to Heaven today.  Keegan, not three weeks older than my own little boy.

I am undone.  Completely raw for the day in my stocking feet & a little boy who does not understand why his momma is hugging him instead of using the usual exasperated tones at dinnertime.

I put him in bed & pull the red & aqua cover to his chin & I think that I cannot handle Chicka Chicka Boom Boom one more time, but then I remember the momma’s who never got to read it, or who won’t get to read it.  I wonder if it would be silly to ask God to maybe read Keegan Chicka Chicka Boom Boom one night, just to let him know we’re thinking of his momma’s heart?  & so I pick up that board book, starting to show signs of wear after only a few months because it is loved so.

& my heart, showing signs of wear because it has loved so.

So yes, life is spilling over & I am left breathless & awkward in it’s path.

What started out as an, “aww, darn! momma’s outside my room again” turned into her being a security blanket.  Momma’s outside my door, everything’s okay.   If I was sick or hurting, she sat quietly with her shadow thrown onto the carpet of my bedroom, telling me to close my eyes.

I guess it’s why last night, with my little guy coughing & running a low fever, I sat down quietly on the floor outside his room.  I heard him whimper as he tried to suck his thumb despite a stuffy nose & my heart twisted.  Doug looked at me with raised eyebrow & I said, “I just want to sit until he falls asleep.  It’s the only thing I can really do, you know?”

So I sat until the hum of the humidifier was the only sound I heard.  & I wondered if The Momma felt the same way on the nights she sat for me.

p.s. childhood friends, please raise your hand if you attended a sleepover where the momma sat outside the playroom & told us to settle down.  & then we giggled.

Let’s get one thing straight – character clothing is tacky.   Do not even try to spar with me on this topic, because I could eat a bowl of alphabet soup & shit a better arguement.

Starting at the age where I thought that maybe, one day, I possibly might have children, I swore my child would never wear character clothing.  Sure, I had intense feelings as a non-mother on cosleeping, breastfeeding, raising your child among wolves, & all the other mommy war topics that get panties in a bunch.  But they all paled in comparison to my hatred of character clothing.

Tacky!  I judged the little girl in Target, wearing a Dora sweatshirt.
Vomit in my mouth! I sniffed at the momma buying her son Thomas the Train bedding.
The hell is that?!  I sneered at the brown rusting tow truck imprinted on cereal boxes.

Dare I mention that I had these thoughts not two weeks ago?

Then I met that rusted old tow truck.  His name is Mater & he’s a star in the movie Cars.  What’s that?  You’ve never seen Cars?  Then I assume you don’t have a boy between the ages of 18 months & 10 years.   Because if you do have a boy who’s voice has yet to drop, you can probably recite the entire movie & your husband probably finishes sex with “CAA-CHOW!” & a wink.

This weekend, we strolled into Khol’s to find the kid a pair of fall sneakers, as his little toes smoosh against the end of his Converse.  I perused through the boxes, searching for size 8′s, & Harrison growls out a car sound.  I followed his pointed finger…& my stomach dropped.  Oh, God.  Lightening McQueen.  I smiled, put the kid on the bech to try on respectable Nikes & New Balance shoes.  I stepped back, proud for the simple grey shoes & within moments, I lost my battle.  One look into those big blue eyes, staring past me to the Lightening McQueen sneakers on the shelf & I caved.

“Okay, buddy,” I sighed, kissing years of resolve goodbye.

To anyone else, these shoes may be a symbol of weak parenting pushovers or a complete lack of taste.  To me?  They’re just one more moment where I’m putting my kid before what I want & learning to be happier for it.  You see ugly shoes, but I see little eyes light up every morning.

Kind of like the red flashing lights on the soles of said shoes.  sigh.
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While we did “distraction” when he was younger, aka LOOK AT THIS SHINY OBJECT INSTEAD OF BEING A NAUGHTY BOY!, we’ve been more into “natural consequences” for the past few months.  Harrison has this awesome push-toy bus that he adores, but the rule is that he may NOT run into a person or animal with it.  Because that shit hurts.  If he makes contact?  He loses his bus for a minute.  A few times of losing his bus & he quickly realized that torturing Tuck simply isn’t worth it.  He heads for the street?  Outside playtime is over.  He starts throwing food at the table?  He gets down for a few minutes, then we try again.  It’s a raging pain in the ass for me because dinner can take three times as long, but such is the life of not raising a self-entitled jackass. 

But last week, we hit a milestone I never looked forward to – Harrison’s first time-out.  After much discussion, we decided that it would be best for our family to save actual punishment for acts of meanness or violence at this age.  As Harry sat in my lap, I strapped his sandals on his feet & Tuck sat loyally by our side.  BAM! Harrison’s foot made contact with Tuck’s face. “HARRISON, NO!” I cried in horror.  As I reached down to quickly check Tuck, his foot came in contact again.

I can’t lie.  The anger in me?  It was STRONG.  In the words of ye olde country, I snatched that child bald into a dining room chair placed in the corner of the room.  “SIT THERE & DO NOT MOVE A MUSCLE,” I ordered.  “WE DO NOT KICK OUR DOGGIES.”  holy crap, I sounded like The Momma.  Harrison sniffled as I stood with my back to him, watching the clock.

One minute.  Two minutes.  One minute for each year of his life, according to “the experts.”  I took a deep breath, my heart rate finally slowed.  I turned & crouched, lifting his chin with my index finger.  “Harrison, you are in time-out because you kicked your doggie.  That was not nice.”  He sniffled, little shoulders hiccuping.  “Harrison, I love you & I want you to be a good, sweet boy.  You need to go hug Tucker & tell her you’re sorry.”

My heart?  It felt split wide open & bruised.  I knew what he did was wrong, what I did was right, but does it make parenting any easier?

Thankfully, there can be those moments that define the love in discipline.  This past weekend, as our family of three lounged in the master bedroom, Harrison decided to “help” by taking the iPhone charger & attempting to plug it into the socket.  “NO!” I yelled sharply, only to get his attention.  He dropped the charger & quickly turned on his heel, burying his face in the side of the bed.  Doug & I both crouched down as Doug said, “Little guy, that’s not safe.  We love you & we’d appreciate it if you’d stick around a few more years.”  I planted a kiss on Harry’s cheek, & he turned & ran into the closet, lying down in the dark corner.

 Planking or shame?

 My toddler was punishing himself.  I hid a smile behind my hand because y’all?  It’s funny in that weird-quircky-things-that-toddlers-do-way.  & oddly enough, it makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, I’m doing something right discipline-wise that he feels the gravity of our disapproval.

I sat beside him in the dark, rubbing his back.  “Harrison?” I said softly.  “Momma’s not mad at you.  I love you & want you to be safe.”  His face stayed buried in the carpet.  “Okay, buddy.  When you’re ready to come out, we’d love to take you for a walk.”  I planted a kiss on his head & immediately stuck a safety cover in the outlet socket, where it should have been all along.

Sometimes I swear this discipline stuff is working & teaching me just as hard as the toddler.

love,
me

Dear dad with a toddler on the plane,
You’re doing awesome.  Go on with your bad self.

love,
The Universal Brotherhood of Toddler Parents

Dear Continental,
It’s a three-hour 6am flight & the bitch in seat 11F is starving.  Throw her a cinnamon bun, okay?

love,
the bitch in seat 11F

You don’t know me, or my husband, or my little boy.  I don’t know you, or your momma, or your poppa & brothers & sisters.

But you have that same wide-eyed wonderous look as Harrison & I just knew you were meant for us.

My husband & I talked about you for weeks.  We prayed about you & sat on the couch with tears in my eyes & we wondered if we could commit to you.  We’re selfish, really, but your little face shattered that today when we chose to sponsor you.  We chose you because you remind us of our little boy – wide eyes, born only two weeks apart.

But really, it was “toy cars” listed as your favorite past time that stole our hearts.  Worlds & hemispheres away, I imagine that you & Harrison vroom your cars over the legs of your mommas in the same way.  So different, but possibly so alike in heart.

I do not know how $35.00 per month will change your life, but I want to thank you for already changing ours.  Little Marcos, we look forward to being with you for this journey.

love,
Our family.